


new soul

by got_spunk



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Because of Reasons, F/M, Just Werewolf Transformations, Kind of Being Human AU, M/M, a ghost a vampire and a werewolf live together, a ghost a vampire and a werewolf walk into a bar, and say ouch, and things get complicated, and who knows, anyway, but anyway, but nothing too awful, however it goes the rating will change to match the content, it's going to get violent eventually, maybe even some bad-vampire-blood-trip flashbacks, so the warning's there, the bbc one just so we're clear, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/got_spunk/pseuds/got_spunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can see me?” he whispers, staring at Grantaire with something horribly like hope scribbled all over his really quite symmetrical face.</p><p>“Yes?” Grantaire replies uncertainly. The other man stands shakily, eyes burning with a sudden, astonishingly fierce light.</p><p>“You can /see/ me,” he breaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. new arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> welcome aboard the au crazy train CHOO CHOOOO
> 
> first cinderella, now this, and a tangled one might happen, never mind the uni au, and also maybe a zombie apocalypse one, too? i don't know? i don't know. what i DO know is that it's late enough for me to be using yael naim songs as titles, and that, my friend, is late indeed.

“It really is a gorgeous flat,” the realtor gushes. “The feng shui of the place is off the charts, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, my God, if she uses that phrase one more time, I’m gonna lose it,” Grantaire mutters in Cosette’s ear. Cosette lightly bumps his hip with hers.

“Keep it together for ten more minutes,” she replies under her breath. “I think this is the place. Yes, we quite agree,” she says aloud to the realtor, who beams. “Especially the basement. Would you say it’s large enough for, say, a cage?” The realtor blinks. Cosette smiles sweetly. “We have a very healthy and adventurous sexual relationship,” she explains as Grantaire struggles to keep his face straight.

“Got to keep things lively,” he adds, quite pleasantly. The realtor, blushing furiously, opens and closes her mouth a few times.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find that the basement is completely suitable for any and all – er, needs, that you would, um – ” She fumbles for words until Cosette takes pity on her at last and asks to go ahead and sign the papers. “Of course,” the poor woman blurts in abject relief, and Cosette sneaks a wink back at Grantaire as the realtor follows her into the kitchen.

Grantaire wanders a bit while they talk, poking his head back in the living room area, studying a cracked tile at the bottom of the stairs. It _is_ a nice flat, he thinks, pleased, and perfectly suited to their needs. He steps experimentally on the cracked tile, squinting up at the second floor.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me, babe,” he calls. He can hear the realtor and Cosette figuring everything out, which is for the best, really; Grantaire’s not much for organization.

“Okay, _tiger_ ,” Cosette replies, and he grins. “Almost done!”

They’ve already gotten the grand tour, but Grantaire likes to figure things out for himself. He’s already privately laid claim to the smaller bedroom, which has a window and the perfect corner for an easel, as well as plenty of floor space for meditation and the like. Cosette will probably go with the yellow bedroom; it’s light and airy, just like her, with a shelf filled with books left over from the previous owner, who had died unexpectedly with no one to sort out his affairs. There’s one other bedroom as well, but they could convert it into something else – a nursery, the realtor had suggested, and it had taken all of Grantaire’s self-control not to look at Cosette, because he knew he would have burst out laughing if he did – maybe a library or a music room or something silly and indulgent that would help to keep them sane. Cosette is right: this is the perfect flat for them, and he’s sure that between the two of them, they’ll be able to turn it into a proper home.

A creaking noise from said extra bedroom stops him in his tracks.

He almost passes it off as nothing – almost. But then, he hasn’t managed this long without a little well-earned paranoia. He steps toward the door. A low growl.

Grantaire hesitates.

“Hello?” he asks quietly, fully aware that this is exactly what he should not be doing in this situation; he’s seen that movie, thank you very much. But his hand closes around the doorknob anyway, and with a little push, the door swings open.

Inside, a golden-haired man around Grantaire’s age is lying down on the window seat. He glances over when Grantaire enters, heaves a sigh, and makes a growling noise identical to the one Grantaire had heard before. He looks, Grantaire thinks, bored out of his mind.

“Oh, you will be gone within the week,” he mutters as he gives Grantaire a dismissive once over.

“And just who, exactly, are _you?_ ” Grantaire demands, ready to grab the nearest lamp and yell for backup. But then the man nearly falls off the window seat in shock, shockingly blue eyes gone wider than saucers.

“ _You can see me?_ ” he whispers, staring at Grantaire with something horribly like hope scribbled all over his really quite symmetrical face.

“Yes?” Grantaire replies uncertainly. The other man stands shakily, eyes burning with a sudden, astonishingly fierce light.

“You can _see_ me,” he breaths. Grantaire is about to call for help, symmetrical bone structure be damned, when someone touches him on the shoulder. He starts and swallows a shriek, but it’s only the realtor, Cosette behind her.

“Yes, this would make a lovely nursery,” the realtor says smugly. “Congratulations, kids – you own a flat!” She looks expectantly between the two, smiling, apparently unaware of the intruder standing in the middle of the room as clear as day. But Cosette is staring right at him, completely frozen in shock, and suddenly Grantaire understands.

“Yeah, thanks so much,” he gushes, herding everyone away from the room and shutting the door firmly behind him. “This is – this is really great, so exciting – shall we all have a cup of tea to celebrate?” He ushers the realtor in front of them so he can grab Cosette’s wrist.

“What – ?” she starts to hiss, but he gives her a warning squeeze.

“I think we just met the original owner,” he explains in a low voice.

“What?” Cosette squeaks.

“We have a ghost,” he elaborates.

“What?” asks the realtor. Both Grantaire and Cosette jump guiltily.

“Um – I’d like to propose a toast,” Grantaire stutters. “To, uh, to the best realtor a couple could ever ask to have!” He punches his fist in the air, because they are on the stairs, with no drinks, and he did not think this through. “Huzzah!”

“Huzzah!” Cosette manages, enthusiasm perhaps veering more towards panic. The realtor watches them, her own smile painted an inch thick and utterly unconvincing.

She does not stay for tea.

Cosette and Grantaire look at each other for a long, long moment. Then they walk into the living room, where neither is surprised to see their resident ghost sitting primly on the couch, waiting for them. He gestures for them to sit. Grantaire fights the mad urge to laugh.

“Hello. My name is Enjolras,” he says when they get settled, Cosette in the armchair, Grantaire leaning against the back of it. “I’m dead.”

“Lovely to meet you, Enjolras,” Cosette replies, completely unfazed. “I’m Cosette. I’m a werewolf.”

“And I’m Grantaire, but you can call me R,” Grantaire finishes. “I’m a vampire.”

To his credit, their resident ghost does not bat an eyelash.

“Well,” Enjolras remarks, “this could be interesting.”


	2. a little bit of background

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case: very, very quick mention of sexual assault. not explicit at all, but better safe than sorry, lovelies.

Cosette and Grantaire had met two years ago in the dingy parking lot of a dingier diner. Cosette had been town-hopping for a while, terrified of biting someone or being discovered, but she’d found a badly needed income at Plumet’s and had thought she might make it more than a month or two. Grantaire, for his part, had stumbled in with the express intent of finding a neck to fuck and suck, but the distinct rumble of someone being thrown into the side of a dumpster had intrigued him enough to check it out.

Cosette never likes to talk about this part.

Grantaire doesn’t like to talk about it either, but he’s had over two centuries’ worth of remembering things he doesn’t care to remember and Cosette…he owes Cosette that much, he thinks.

Long story short, he tells Enjolras, a werewolf pack had decided to mark their territory and Grantaire had intervened. What he doesn’t tell Enjolras is the way Cosette had cried and clung to him, diner jumper ripped open to her waist after he’d run them off. He doesn’t tell him how Cosette had sobbed over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you” when _he_ was the one who had walked away from that diner with his sober streak still intact – the sober streak he’s maintained to this day, and the longest sober streak he’s had since World War I. Someone was saved that day, certainly; Cosette likes to think they saved each other. Grantaire – he knows better.

“So what’s your story?” he asks their resident ghost, and Enjolras shifts.

“I don’t know,” he answers. “One moment I was alive, the next…” He tilts his head toward the bottom of the stairs. “That cracked tile you were stepping all over earlier is where I died.” Cosette, who has already curled up on the couch next to Enjolras, though Enjolras still seems highly discomfited with them both, sucks a breath in through her teeth.

“That’s awful,” she murmurs. “You’d think Mrs. Toussaint would have mentioned something like the previous tenant dying on the property.”

“Let’s be real, though, she’s a really terrible realtor,” Grantaire chuckles from the armchair. Enjolras had made a little noise of protest when he’d put his feet up on the coffee table, so Grantaire has made a point of keeping them there, even though it’s no longer strictly comfortable. “Tales of mystery and woe aside, what _I_ want to know is why you were growling at me.”

“To get you to leave,” Enjolras replies with all the sensitivity of a jackhammer. “I have a system. Most people are freaked out enough to give up after the first week.” His eyes flick between them. “But then, most people can’t see me.”

“Maybe that explains why Mrs. Toussaint avoided mentioning it,” Cosette theorizes. “If she’s having such a hard time selling it and keeping it sold.”

“Also, she’s a terrible realtor,” Grantaire adds as if having an epiphany of biblical proportions. Cosette leans forward to swat at his leg. He retaliates by sticking his foot in her face, which she bats away, squealing. Enjolras observes all this with an oddly stony expression.

“Are you two together, then?” he asks abruptly, and Cosette and Grantaire glance at each other, grin, and burst out laughing.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Cosette assures him, giggling. “That’s just the front we put up because it’s easier. He’s gayer than a treeful of monkeys.” Grantaire scowls at her.

“Jesus, just out me, would you? And I am bisexual, _bisexual_ , I am a _bisexual vampire_ , thank you very much.” Cosette rolls her eyes.

“You’re a walking Anne Rice novel is what you are.”

“Oh, shut _up_ , you’ve never even read Anne Rice.”

“Not all of us have had one hundred and fifty plus years to catch up on our reading.”

“Oh, _ha ha_ , well there’s me told, isn’t it?”  

Enjolras studies them as they bicker back and forth affectionately, adjusting so he’s sitting cross-legged.

“Okay,” he states when they’ve settled down. “So we’re living together. Whether we like it or not.” He eyes Grantaire’s feet, still propped up on the coffee table. Grantaire gets the distinct impression that Enjolras is firmly in the “or not” category. “First things first: how are we dealing with…” He dwindles off, eyes sliding toward Cosette.

“With my time of the month?” she prompts delicately. Grantaire snorts. Enjolras blinks rapidly, but nods. “Well, I’ve bought a cage on the internet that should be sturdy enough,” Cosette explains. “Although, to be honest, this is going to be a bit of an experiment –  ”

“I cannot believe you told Mrs. Toussaint it was a sex cage,” Grantaire interrupts. A flash of annoyance flits across Enjolras’ perfectly symmetrical features. “You couldn’t’ve just told her it was for your pet Doberman or something?”

“It didn’t occur to me,” Cosette says honestly. “Also, I’m pretty sure that’s racist.”

“How is that racist?”

“Well, she’s a werewolf,” Enjolras says irritably. “So you probably shouldn’t compare her to dogs. It’s rude. _Anyway_ ,” he continues, ignoring Grantaire making a face at him, “how will things work?”

“I just nip down, lock myself in, and pray the neighbors think we’re just awfully loud in bed,” Cosette answers smartly. “I’d suggest staying upstairs. Grantaire’s seen me transform before, and it’s not particularly pretty.”

“I keep her company before,” Grantaire adds. “But vampires and werewolves technically don’t mix very well, and my, erm, scent has a tendency to bring out her more aggressive side.”

“I see,” Enjolras deliberates, hands twitching as if itching to take notes. “And how does your thing work? The blood drinking?” Grantaire winces.

“It’s best not to bring up the b-word around R,” Cosette says delicately. “He’s clean right now, and that’s what matters.”

“I’m essentially an addict,” Grantaire explains. Cosette may want to skirt around the nasty bits, but they’re stuck with this ghost, and he’s stuck with them, and he deserves the truth, self-righteous, symmetrically-featured prick though he is. _With angel hair_ , Grantaire’s mind supplies treacherously, and he suppresses a sigh. “I’ll have good days and bad days. The bad days will involve copious amounts of alcohol and bitching. Just be aware.”

“I see,” Enjolras says again, and if he thinks Grantaire misses the note of disapproval in his voice, he is sorely mistaken. But it’s good, really. Cosette has a tendency to make him out to be a much better person – can he still call himself a person? – than he really is. A little balance will be safer in the long run.

“Well,” Cosette announces slowly, eyeing the two men with a shrewdness that does not bode well for the next week, oh, no, it does not, “I’m exhausted. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

“I’m a bit tired, too,” Grantaire says with a yawn that’s not entirely faked; he’s not eager to be left alone with their resident ghost just yet, angelic hair or no. Enjolras almost looks disappointed.

“I don’t sleep,” he shrugs. Neither Cosette nor Grantaire know how to respond to this, so they mumble their good nights and shuffle off toward the staircase. Abruptly, Enjolras pops in front of them, just materializes like it’s fucking _Bewitched_ or something, and they both jump. “Sorry,” Enjolras says awkwardly. “I’m used to…well.” He takes a breath (or is it just force of habit?). “I just wanted to say,” he states carefully and quietly, “that it’s nice to have people see and hear me, and I’m glad that you’re here, and I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

Cosette actually tears up.

“Thank you, Enjolras,” she murmurs. “It’s lovely to meet you, and I can tell we’re going to get along just fine.” She looks expectantly at Grantaire.

“Er, yeah,” he manages. “Ditto.”

Enjolras just flicks an uncomfortable smile at them and disappears with another _pop_.

“What was that?” Cosette hisses. Grantaire shrugs helplessly, and her eyes widen. “I knew it,” she accuses him, ignoring his frantic shushing. “You _like_ him.” He glares at her, licks the pad of his thumb, and _thunks_ it directly into the middle of her forehead.

“Not a word,” he growls as he squeezes past her and continues up the stairs. She all but has a conniption.

“I _knew_ it,” she mouths in ecstasy, following right behind him and drumming his back with her palms. “I knew it, _oh_ , I am _so_ good, I _knew_ it.”

“Leave it alone, Cosette,” Grantaire mutters, reaching his bedroom and slipping inside before she can stick her head in. “Good _night_.”

“Good night,” a pitiful little voice says from outside his door. Grantaire changes into pajama pants and a truly ratty t-shirt before he caves.

“Just get in here and don’t talk,” he grumbles as he opens the door and lets Cosette in, because he has the nasty feeling she would wait outside his door all night if he didn’t; Cosette is nothing if not persistent.

He gets in bed and she crawls in after him, snuggling up next to him as close as she can. He’s always cold. She’s a little heater, has been since before being bitten.

“I think we’re gonna be all right, Grantaire,” she whispers drowsily. He pulls her close.

“I think so, too, kiddo,” he sighs, and that’s how they fall asleep, all tangled limbs and habitual proximity, because they’re not quite accustomed to safety just yet. But it’s a start. It’s a start.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not together?” Enjolras asks when they blink open sleepy eyes to find him at the edge of the bed with a breakfast tray, the sunlight from the window behind him making his golden hair glow like a goddamn halo. Cosette takes one look at the expression on Grantaire’s face and snuffles a laugh into the crook of his neck.

“Pretty sure,” she assures him, and Enjolras smiles even though he doesn’t get the joke. He does sit on their bed while they eat and chat, relaxing by degrees – he even joins in the conversation occasionally, and that’s no easy feat with Cosette and Grantaire’s rapid fire banter. It’s still bizarre, and it’s still forced.

But it’s a start. It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up - cosette's first transformation at the house.


	3. deep dark forest long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhh, so this got a whole lot darker than i thought it would. i promise more cuddling and silliness soon.
> 
> (after the next chapter)
> 
> (heh heh heh)
> 
> anyway, brief mention of vomit. be aware. also, chapter title stolen from first aid kit's "wolf," which, yeah, i might have listened to it while writing this, why do you ask?

It becomes apparent very quickly that Cosette is their glue. Enjolras and Grantaire have a tendency to get into it over stupid things if left alone for too long, and given that Cosette and Grantaire don’t start work at the hospital until Thursday, everyone has learned that it’s best to just keep the TV off. Politics added to one hundred plus years’ worth of disillusionment added to that special brand of idealism only Enjolras can achieve without sounding like a fucking Mousketeer equals a Not Good Idea.

Grantaire thinks he’s more nervous about Cosette’s first transformation in the house than Cosette. Because Cosette is their buffer. And this is not going to end well.

“Would you relax?” Cosette demands the afternoon of the full moon. Grantaire has been tiptoeing on eggshells all morning with two different supernatural beings, and obviously, he’s not doing a very good job. “At least we’re not homeless this time, or have you forgotten the clusterfuck that was Dublin?”

“No, we’ll be fine,” Grantaire assures her hastily. “It’ll be totally fine.” Cosette always gets a little snappish as her transformation approaches; this part, at least, is normal. No, what’s worrying him this time is the cage. What had seemed like a good idea before now just sounds ridiculous. It’s large enough to handle a werewolf, certainly, and strong enough, too – Cosette never does research by half. But as the minutes tick away, Grantaire realizes that he’s not quite sure if he’s comfortable leaving Cosette all alone in the basement, and he’s beginning to suspect she’s not entirely easy with the idea either.

“It’s not outside this time,” Cosette is muttering, fingernail tapping on her mug of tea. “And that’s the point.”

“Exactly,” Grantaire says buoyantly. She doesn’t seem to hear him.

She hasn’t told him that much about what happened the night she was bitten – he knows that she knew her attacker, but only vaguely, that she didn’t blame her. But those full moons when they’d been forced to find a patch of wood or drive out as far as they could, she’d had a hard time coming down afterward. The cage should be a good thing. The cage means no chance of collateral damage.

Grantaire will trade collateral damage for Cosette any day.

He supposes that makes him a bad person. He doesn’t much care.

Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes from across the kitchen. He’s worried, too, Grantaire knows, though whether it’s the fact that by six or seven tonight they’ll have a fully-grown werewolf on their hands or if he’s starting to warm to his accidental housemates, only time will tell. In any case, his nerves have a certain effect on his environment, one that is doing nothing to alleviate anyone’s nerves.

“Sorry,” Enjolras winces as the cabinet door swings open and shut without warning. “Sorry. This is a new thing.”

“Two weeks with housemates and you start throwing poltergeist temper tantrums?” Grantaire says before he can help himself. “You need a hobby.” Enjolras draws himself up to his full height, but Cosette makes a little whining noise, setting her tea down with a clunk.

“Stop fighting,” she pleads and both boys look mortified.

“Headache?” Grantaire guesses and Cosette nods, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. It isn’t enough, Grantaire thinks dully, that the transformation itself is horrifically painful; the build-up is just as awful. Headaches are the least of it. Nausea, vomiting, dizziness, all these are just par for the course.

“Well, what do you expect?” Cosette had pointed out once when he’d mentioned it in a fit of bitterness. It had been during the Dublin fiasco, actually, and he’d been jonesing for a bite on top of being panicked out of his mind. “My body is literally becoming something else – I’d wager an entirely different species. Bodies aren’t meant to do that.” Grantaire doesn’t know much about werewolf physiology – true to tradition, for most of his long, long life, he’s avoided lycanthropes because it’s just what’s done. He has a premonition, however, that Cosette is righter than either care to admit regarding her condition. Bodies _aren’t_ meant to break and reform every month. What toll it takes on the body in question is a gaping maw in Grantaire’s mind that he actively and meticulously avoids.

“I’ll stay with you,” Enjolras says abruptly. “During…it. I’d like to sit with you, if that’s all right.” Cosette winces.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she declines, swallowing. “It can get a little upsetting.”

“I won’t be in any danger,” Enjolras insists. “There’s not a whole lot you can do to someone who’s already dead, Cosette.”

“She said no,” Grantaire says firmly. Their resident ghost may be cute, but there’s a line. The lights flicker ominously until Enjolras glares at them.

“I will work on that,” he says tightly, and _pops_ out.

“Be nice,” Cosette mumbles, hands still pressed to her eyes. “We’re not the only ones having to adjust.”

“You are a saint,” Grantaire informs her. She laughs. Then she gags. There’s no time to get to the bathroom; she barely makes it to the sink as it is. Grantaire holds her hair back as best as he can.

“I’m so sorry,” she moans when she’s finished, sweaty and shaking. Grantaire kisses her temple, ignoring her protestations.

“It’s a good excuse to get a head start on those dishes,” he says cheerily as he turns on the faucet to wash the worst of it down the drain. Cosette has long since learned not to eat anything solid on full moon days, subsisting mostly on tea and water.

“I think I should just head to the bathroom for a little bit,” Cosette says weakly.

“Right. I’ll take care of this and be there in just a second, all right? Can you make it okay?”

“I’m a werewolf, not a quadriplegic.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He wrinkles his nose as he peers into the sink. Rinsing vomit off of dishes is not the most fun thing in the world, but Cosette has endured just as much for him if not worse. On any of the other twenty-nine to thirty days out of the month, _he_ is the one with his head in the toilet; she has yet to complain. This is, to put it mildly, nothing.

He can hear her getting sick again, and he speeds up the washing, nervous at leaving her alone for too long. When he gets to the bathroom, however, he stops in the doorway.

Cosette has her forearms braced on the toilet as she dry heaves. Crouched behind her is Enjolras, long, tapered fingers keeping her hair back from her forehead.

“It’s all right,” he’s murmuring. “It’s all right, it’s all right.” His eyes meet Grantaire’s above Cosette’s shuddering shoulders, and it’s not the fully-grown werewolf, he really _is_ warming to them, isn’t he? Maybe gradually, maybe reluctantly, but it’s a start.

At last, Cosette is able to lay her cheek against the rim of the bowl and shut her eyes. Her entire body trembles.

“You’re very good at that,” she tells Enjolras hoarsely.

“I had two housemates,” Enjolras says quietly. “Before I died. Combeferre and Courfeyrac. I don’t know what happened to them.” He’s rubbing Cosette’s back, almost unconsciously, and Grantaire’s heart does a funny little wobble. “Combeferre was a med student. He used to take care of us when we got sick.”

“They keep us human, don’t they?” Cosette whispers. “The people we love.”

“They do,” Grantaire replies, careful to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “It’s five-thirty, Cosette.”

“Time to go,” Cosette agrees with grim good humor as Enjolras helps her to her feet. He passes her off to Grantaire, suddenly aloof again, his hands clasped tightly behind him. He’s silent as Grantaire and Cosette descend the stairs where the cage awaits, furnished with mounds of pillows and blankets and a couple of chicken cutlets that do nothing to diminish the fact that it is a cage.

“Oh, the sexy times we will have in that thing, Cosette,” Grantaire murmurs in her ear in the hopes of coaxing a smile out of her. It works. “Such sexy, sexy times. I look fantastic tied-up and in a collar, by the way. Also, leather. I am irresistible in a good pair of leather chaps.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Cosette mutters, but her smile falters as she climbs in and settles herself as best as she can. Grantaire wants to make another joke, wants to be brave for her, or strong. Instead he hesitates, hand on the bars to shut the door and lock her in. “Go ahead and do it,” Cosette says calmly, but he can see the whites of her eyes. “I think this just might work, R, I really do.”

“Me, too,” Grantaire lies, and the little lock clicks shut.

He turns around one last time at the top of the stairs. She’s sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, waiting. A faint _pop_.

“Are you coming?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire shuts the door to the basement, locks it as well, and grabs a drink on the way to the front door.

“It’s a nice night,” he remarks when Enjolras sits beside him on the stairs leading up to the flat. Inside, he imagines he can hear moaning, far away and muffled, but he isn’t sure if it’s real or just the dread conjuring up shadows of what he recalls from the one time he’d seen Cosette turn.

Enjolras says nothing, and Grantaire knows what he’s going to do a split-second before he does it.

“Don’t – ” he starts, but it’s too late: Enjolras has _popped_ back into the house, where Grantaire cannot follow, much less stop him. “You bastard,” Grantaire hisses furiously to the cold night air. “You fucking _bastard_.”

Above him, the full moon glows.


	4. does your mother know that you're out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd and hastily written, but i'm all right with it, for the most part, and that's progress.
> 
> if you're a fan of ABBA, sorry. i quite like them, but i get the feeling enjolras very much would not.

He sits and fumes for about an hour and a half, nursing his beer, imagining increasingly horrific ways for Enjolras to die and staunchly ignoring the fact that Enjolras is already dead. He's just reached the bottom of his bottle (and already he's itching for another, full moons are the worst), when from inside the apartment, the dulcet tones of ABBA start blasting – muffled through the walls, but still loud enough that Grantaire nearly jumps out of his skin. It's so loud, in fact, that he completely misses the _pop_ that heralds Enjolras' return.

"Before you say anything, I left when she came upstairs," the ghost says, and this time, Grantaire not only jumps, he shouts and falls off the stoop.

"What the fuck?" he yells from the ground. The neighbors are going to love them.

"I said, I left before she came upstairs," Enjolras repeats, unfazed. "And I turned on the music." Grantaire only half-registers his words; he's far more focused on how intensely grateful that he isn't human so he can wrap his fingers around Enjolras' throat and throttle him.

"She said no," he snarls, scrambling to his feet. "You had no fucking right - "

"I didn't go down into the basement," Enjolras interrupts coldly. "I stayed upstairs until she got out of the cage, and then I turned on the music and left. And given that it's my flat, I think I was perfectly within my rights to do so."

"Why would you - okay, _no_ , first off, you're _dead_ , you can't own property. Second off _, what do you mean she got out of the cage?_ "

"I mean she got out the cage," Enjolras snaps. He's flickering at the edges, which is as fascinating as it is disorienting. "And since we're on the subject, I'd just like to state for the record that said cage was a stupid idea to begin with, but don't worry, _you're welcome_ , now if the neighbors complain about the noise, they'll complain about the music, not the sounds of everything in the apartment being destroyed."

"Fuck," Grantaire says in response, because it's the only thing that sounds even remotely appropriate given the situation. " _Fuck_ ," he repeats, and Enjolras' mouth thins. He's flickering more violently now, and the streetlamp nearby has started to pulse ominously.

Grantaire squints at him.

"Are you all right?"

"Peachy," Enjolras snaps. He sits down on the steps, scowling, but now the streetlamp is puttering in earnest. Grantaire hesitates. Enjolras' face is unreadable, but in a deliberate sort of way. And he may be dead, but he looks awfully wan, even for a ghost.

"Look, I'm pissed," Grantaire says bluntly. "You're lucky you're dead, because I could kill you, honestly. And believe me, I've had plenty of practice."

Enjolras eyes him as if he's not quite sure if Grantaire is joking or not. _Oh, well, keep him guessing_ , Grantaire thinks with grim good humor.

"But,” he goes on, “as Cosette made pretty damn clear, _Casper the Fucking Nosy Ghost_ , it can be a little traumatizing for everyone involved." He waits, but Enjolras just continues to stare at him, gaze unsettling. Grantaire's words stall, paralyzed, a little, by the aura of intensity that radiates off this slender, fine-boned man like a nigh tangible heat. "So if you're...you know...if you – "

"I'm more upset that you let her lock herself up like some kind of animal," Enjolras says stiffly, and at last, the streetlamp quite literally gives up the ghost and shatters. Very slowly, Enjolras closes his eyes, opens them, looks at the remains of the lamp, looks at the glass littering the ground, and takes a deep breath.

"Well, shit," Grantaire says after a moment. "That could be problematic."

“I will work on that,” Enjolras says flatly. And that’s it. Grantaire waits, debating whether or not to speak at all, but as per usual, his mouth does what it wants to regardless of what he thinks.

"You cannot tell Cosette you went back in."

"I understand."

"Even if you have another fit of self-righteousness or whatever."

"It wasn't a fit - "

" - it was a fit - "

" - and I _understand_ , thank you."

"Because it would kill her, okay? You did a really bad thing. Like, incredibly bad. Margaret Thatcher bad, Enjolras. _Nick Clegg_ bad." 

"I figured that out fairly quickly, actually," Enjolras snaps. "It was a mistake, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again." 

Grantaire's brain tentatively suggests that this will suffice. Grantaire's mouth opens anyway.

"Did you see her?" he asks.

"I told you I stayed upstairs."

"Did you hear her?"

Enjolras hesitates, but does not reply, and that’s as good as an answer, truth be told. Grantaire, too, pauses. He sits, careful to avoid touching Enjolras' knee, which is precariously close to his own.

"Believe it or not, it only takes about half an hour," he remarks after a long silence, punctuated by various muffled synthesizer riffs. "The actual transformation, I mean. After that, she just kind of wanders around and growls. It's kind of cute, except, you know. Werewolf." He studies his hand, flexes and relaxes it. "So. Er." He hates silence, can't abide it. It's why he has a tendency to talk at length, and normally he's quite good at waxing philosophic - he has decades of practice - but now, sitting next to arguably the most frustrating person he's ever met, his oratory skills have magically reverted to Stuttering, Besotted Fifteen-Year-Old, variation no. 12. With a healthy dollop of sexual frustration, and _dammit, no, he’s still mad_.

While whatever music Enjolras put on before _popping_ outside provides a blessed white noise to cover the awkward silence, it’s not enough, he needs to move, so he gets up, fumbling in his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter.

“That’s a disgusting habit,” Enjolras mutters as Grantaire blows a plume of smoke into the night air.

“You are just _dying_ to start a fight, aren’t you?” he asks irritably.

“That’s not funny.”

“What’s not funny?”

Enjolras glowers at him, and part of Grantaire wonders if his freaky poltergeist powers work the same way on vampires as they do on unsuspecting streetlamps.

“‘Dying for a fight?’ Really?” Enjolras says pointedly, and Grantaire rolls his eyes.

They bicker for a while, until it settles into something almost normal – not comforting, exactly, but distracting at least. Enjolras doesn’t need to sleep, which means he could probably argue all night, but Grantaire passes out on him eventually, and the only thing his mind supplies when he wakes up with his head resting against the door and his legs splayed out in front of him is _Did it rain last night?_  followed by, _Oh, God, the neighbors are going to fucking_ love _us_.

“You’re awake,” Enjolras says. Grantaire groans and keeps his eyes closed; there’s something slightly off about all this, but he’s too groggy to figure it out. “Can we go back in now?”

“I dunno, you tell me – you’re the one who does whatever the hell you want to. Jesus Christ, what _time_ is it?”

“Somewhere around six?” Enjolras guesses and Grantaire groans again.

“Right, well. Thank God it’s Saturday.” He blinks his eyes open to find Enjolras sitting cross legged to his right and a slightly damp blanket over Grantaire’s knees.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says as Grantaire plucks at it questioningly. “I know I shouldn’t’ve gone in again, but you fell asleep and I don’t really get cold, so…I actually could take it with me when I rent-a-ghosted. I think I’m getting better at being dead.” He smiles, a quick one, but it’s there. “I think maybe it just takes practice. And I swear a jogger saw me for a second. I waved. He didn’t wave back, but he kind of hesitated, so maybe that means people will eventually be able to see me, too. Not just people like you and Cosette, I mean.”

“Are you always this talkative in the morning?” Grantaire grumbles. “Rent-a-ghosting. _Honestly_.”

“Well, it’s not like there are any set terms for any of this, are there?” Enjolras points out. “I’ve just got to make it up as I go along.”

“Which reminds me – has anyone noticed the streetlamp yet?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras flushes.

“I think we should write a letter or something,” he mutters, standing. Yes, there’s definitely something missing, Grantaire thinks, he’s just not sure what it is. “And leave an envelope with some money in it.”

“Oh, yeah, and a card, too,” Grantaire adds, standing, too, and stretching. “‘Dear citizens of this fine neighborhood, regrettably, my rent-a-ghosting got out of control, and I smashed your streetlamp with my mind. I’m awfully sorry, come round for tea some time. Sincerely, the ghost in 18B.’”

“Rent-a-ghosting is the teleportation. I haven’t come up with a name for the other thing,” is all Enjolras says and Grantaire sighs, draping the wet blanket over his arm and suspecting there’s a bit of irony there somewhere, if he cared to winkle it out.

 “Er, did it rain?”

“It misted.”

“Gotcha,” Grantaire says, then starts. “The _music_ ,” he realizes.

“It shut off about five or so minutes ago,” Enjolras says with something not unlike uncertainty. “I didn’t want to go in until I was sure it was all right – ”

“Oh, sure, because you were so concerned with that last night – ”

Without warning, the door swings open, revealing a distraught Cosette wearing nothing but a hastily thrown on t-shirt of Grantaire’s and shorts, and both boys shut up.

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean for you all to stay out here all night!” she cries. “Which one of you turned on the music?”

“Me,” Enjolras says, a tad sheepishly. Cosette looks as though she might burst into tears.

“Thank you,” she sniffs. “It didn’t work at all. We’ll have to find somewhere else to do this, because the flat…I’m really, really sorry, I’m a colossal idiot…”

She steps aside to let them in, and Grantaire cannot help the gasp that escapes him.

The couch is nothing but a mass of stuffing, the floor rug just strips of cloth. The walls aren’t pretty – from what he can see, there are scratch marks everywhere –and if the state of the doorframe leading to the kitchen is any indication, that room has been demolished as well. That this has been an utter disaster is the understatement of the year, and Grantaire seriously doubts that a hospital janitor’s income – even added to a hospital receptionist’s income – is going to pay for half of this.

“I’m so sorry,” Cosette keeps saying, covering her face. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“No, no, this could be worse,” Grantaire hears himself assure her, though he’s not quite sure he believes it. “It just means a trip to Ikea. And the paint in there was utterly atrocious, didn’t match the furniture scheme at all. This is a good thing, really.”

“Gran _taire_ ,” Cosette wails. “You should be furious!”

“How’s the upstairs?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire glowers at him. Cosette only sniffles.

“Couldn’t manage the stairs with claws. So it’s fine up there, I suppose. Unlike here.” Her eyes fill then, and she sits on the ruined couch, head in her hands. “Oh, God, what are we going to do? I’m so sorry. I’m so _sorry_.” Grantaire sits on one side of her, Enjolras the other. For a moment, all they can do is survey the remains of the room.

“Well,” Enjolras suggests after a moment, “we could make breakfast.”

They have tea and eggs in the kitchen, which actually didn’t fare too badly, considering. It’s a solemn affair; silverware clinks in the silence, punctuated by the occasional sniff from Cosette. But Grantaire rubs her back, and Enjolras keeps pushing tea on her like he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do, and by the time seven o’clock rolls around, things are starting to look more manageable.

“Oh, God, worst morning ever,” Cosette whimpers, face flat against the table. “It was like waking up to a nightmare.”

“ABBA will do that, yes,” Enjolras replies instantly, utterly serious, and Grantaire chokes, surprised into a laugh. Enjolras’ mouth twitches up tentatively. After a moment, Cosette’s does, too.

The flat is a mess. Cosette has nowhere to transform. And the neighbors probably hate them.

But something has eased between them, unlikely housemates as they are. And that, Grantaire thinks, is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think we'll meet marius in the next chapter :)


	5. you have no compassion for my poor nerves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is an update at last - bless you all for your patience, my mind is a bag of cats.
> 
> enter: marius pontmercy

Grantaire has just finished mopping up in Mrs. Jenkins-Harlow’s room (vomit and it’s not even eight o’clock yet, it is going to be a _Monday_ ), when he hears a sound that he hasn’t heard in quite a while:

Cosette is laughing.

 _Properly_ laughing.

The incident with the transformation in the house had left everyone feeling awkward, to say the least – Enjolras especially seems to have cooled his ghostly heels, to the point where Grantaire feels morally obligated to rile him up, if only to get him to show some signs of life (that dig had been particularly effective just this morning, actually). Cosette, for her part, appeared to get over it fairly quickly, and certainly the trip to Ikea had been therapeutic, if very, very unproductive (the new couch is nice, so there's that), but Grantaire has not been alive for two hundred or so years without picking up a few things. And Cosette, quite simply, is not okay.

Yet there she is, chin propped on her hand, eyes glowing, and _laughing_.

Grantaire has missed that sound.

“That’s so exciting, though,” she’s saying, and Grantaire peers further around the corner to see who she’s talking to.  “I just sit behind a desk all day and answer phones.”

“You know, it’s funny, but I mostly do that, too,” someone who is decidedly male – and oh, _wow_ , completely infatuated – says sheepishly. “I’m just here to visit my Grandad.” Cosette goes pink.

“Oh, goodness, I’ve been taking up your visitation time,” she squeaks. Grantaire leans around the corner further. He can see a shock of red hair, an awfully shabby suit, and two ears that nearly match the hair in hue.

“Not at all,”shabby suit protests. “I’m just leaving, actually – I mean, I don’t have anywhere to go – I mean, I do, of course, just not right now – er – ”

 _Oh, God, this is fucking_ excruciating, Grantaire thinks, unsure if he should be amused or just sad. _Oh, well. Here goes my good deed for the day_.

“Cosette!” he cries, wheeling his little mop and bucket over to the receptionist desk. “Who _is_ this dashing young man?” The dashing young man goes even redder, so red Grantaire fears his freckles might pop off or evaporate into the air, because holy fuck, he’s never been so aware of how much blood can rush to a person’s face. _Shit, shit, this was a bad idea, this is why we don’t do good deeds, Grantaire, you utter moron, oh, shit, his_ pulse _._ Cosette senses danger, though whether it’s of the oh-no-Grantaire-is-going-to-embarrass- me-horrifically-in-front-of-Cute-Heterosexual-Male or the oh-no-Grantaire-is-going-to-eat-Cute-Heterosexual-Male variety, Grantaire can’t tell. Either way, she’s glaring daggers at him.

“This is Mr. Marius Pontmercy,” she says with a broad smile that very clearly promises that she will not hesitate to put a stake through Grantaire’s heart if he doesn’t behave himself. “He’s a clinical negligence barrister.”

“Oh, that’s so interesting,” Grantaire enthuses, hands twisting around his mop. _Why did I try to be a nice person, no, no, no, this was such a bad idea, his fucking_ heartbeat, _no, no, no, I need to go home._ “I’m – uh – I’m really sorry, but I’m not feeling well at all.” He shoots Cosette a significant look, and her eyes widen ever so slightly, but to her credit, that is the extent of her reaction to Grantaire confirming that yes, he would like to eat Cute Heterosexual Male Whose Name Is Marius Pontmercy. “I’m just gonna sign out early. See you at the house, Cosette?”

Cosette’s face drains of all color. Interestingly, so does Marius’.

“Okay, Grantaire,” Cosette grits out. She seems to be warring between exasperation, horror, and the kind of righteous fury that only tiny blondes like Cosette and Enjolras can get away with. “See you then.”

“Lovely to meet you, Marius,” Grantaire says hastily, and he flees.

~

“Grantaire!” Cosette shrieks as soon as she steps through the door. “Why would you do that?”

“I had to go,” Grantaire groans from the couch. He’s facedown in the cushions, feeling utterly miserable. They’d only had two bottles of wine – when did that happen? – and he’d chugged both out of sheer terror. Now, isolated from humanity at large, he’s definitely got the blood-thing under control – he’s got about thirty minutes before he starts upchucking or the rest of the night is going to be utterly miserable, and that, thank God, is sufficient distraction.

“Not that,” Cosette snaps, marching over to poke him between the shoulder blades. Grantaire lets out a little dry sob. “Why would you say ‘See you at the house?’”

“Because we live together?”

“He thinks we’re a couple, Grantaire,” Cosette hisses, and without preamble, she flops on top of him. “It sounded like you were marking your territory or something! He’s super nice, super cute, and super single, and he thinks we’re _dating_.”

“So tell him we’re not,” Grantaire whines, shifting uncomfortably under her weight.  “I swear to God, Cosette, I’m gonna throw up on you.”

“I tried to tell him that,” Cosette mutters. “But he left right after you did, couldn’t get away fast enough. What if I never see him again? Grantaire, what if I’m going to die alone?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really trying to follow you here, but I am seriously going to throw up on you if you don’t get off of me.”

Cosette peels herself off of him reluctantly, grumbling about grumpy vampires drinking all the wine when all she wants to do is come home and pour herself a glass and watch _Pride and Prejudice_ until her eyes are numb. Grantaire shifts on his stomach uncomfortably, nausea a hot, boiling pit in his gut.

“I’m sorry I ruined your one chance at true love,” he mumbles. Cosette pushes his legs up so that they’re dangling in the air before she sits and takes them into her lap. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Cosette sighs. Grantaire noses his face further into the couch. She’d been so happy, and he’d fucked it up. Which, you know. Par for the course. But still.

“He’s going to come back,” he points out. “He’s got to. Because of his grandfather or whatever.”

“That’s true,” Cosette muses, tapping her index fingers absentmindedly against his calves. “Although they don’t seem to get along very well. Matelote said they were arguing when she went in to check Mr. Gillenormand's blood pressure.”

“That’s family for you.”

“I suppose.” Her fingers still. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s human,” Cosette reminds him quietly. “I’m not.”

“Cosette,” Grantaire says after a beat. “You are the most human person I know. And I’ve been around for a while.” She’s silent. “You’re human in the best ways. And if – _when_ this barrister guy comes back, I think you should ask him out. If only because he seemed a little dense, and if you’re gonna go for it, you need to take the lead.” Cosette’s fingers start to tap again, lightly, comfortingly, and Grantaire lets himself smile.

A _pop_ startles them both.

“I made tea,” Enjolras says, and indeed, two steaming mugs are clutched almost nervously in either hand. Grantaire doesn’t know what the deal is with all the tea – he’s got a theory that it’s Enjolras’ way of apologizing, but given that Cosette doesn’t (and won’t) know about the full moon drama, he really wishes Enjolras would give it a rest, because the washing up is getting a little ridiculous.

“Do you want to watch _Pride and Prejudice_ with me?” Cosette asks plaintively. “Grantaire doesn’t like it because of reasons we’re not going to get into – ”

“OKAY, but she just magically realizes she’s in love with him when she sees how huge his house is? Really? Six fucking hours of walking around and gossiping and talking about how nice everybody’s eyes are, and _that's_ the culmination of all this sexual tension - ”

“Grantaire likes to pretend that he’s not a total cheesy romantic at heart,” Cosette stage whispers. “But you should watch Colin Firth with me and tell me I’m pretty and that I’m not going to die alone and we’ll both ignore him, yes?”

“I’ve never seen it,” Enjolras confesses, and Cosette gasps.

“Of course you’ve never seen it,” Grantaire grumbles. “God. Just come over here – I don’t want any tea, if you wave that in my face, I will throw up on you – we’re watching the stupid thing.”

“And?” Cosette prompts, somewhat pitifully.

“And were I unwed, I would take you in a manly fashion,” Grantaire relents. Cosette continues to look at him with huge, pleading eyes.

“Because I’m pretty?” she prompts in a tiny voice.

“Because you’re pretty,” Grantaire confirms, turning onto his back so he properly shove his foot in her face.

Once the squealing is done, Enjolras does come over, perching himself on the armrest nearest to Cosette. Cosette fiddles around with the remote, scanning through their queue until she lights upon the 1995 miniseries. They’re about three hours in – “Fuck work tomorrow, it’s Colin fucking Firth, we’re watching the whole thing,” Cosette pipes up unexpectedly, and Enjolras looks horrified – when their resident ghost coughs lightly.

“So. You’re married?” he asks Grantaire. “Or you were? Or…?”

Cosette and Grantaire stare at him for a moment before comprehension dawns on them at the same time.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Cosette says, patting Enjolras’ knee as Grantaire goes into hysterics. He stops quickly enough – laughter is not making the gastrointestinal situation any better – but Enjolras still scowls at him like a little golden thunderhead.

And this is how movie night is started (or, as Grantaire dubs it, “Introduce Enjolras to Basic Staples of Pop Culture Night,” which, predictably, Enjolras does not find nearly as amusing as Grantaire does). They pile onto the couch, and Enjolras is gradually peer pressured into cuddling, and they watch movies, almost like normal people.

They bicker, yes. They fight.

But then, that’s family for you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all are so fantastic and so lovely for keeping up with this silly fic - and for those of you who have hopped on board the AU crazy train, bless you, bless you, bless you! i am actually off to LA today and won't be back for a while, so updates will be even less consistent than they are now (hard to believe, i know), but i hope this marshmallow fluff will tide you over until then. much love, my friends, and feel free to pop by and visit me on [tumblr](http://shakespearean-spunk.tumblr.com/), and never hesitate to send in comments, questions, or concerns! :)
> 
> also: the "were i unwed" bit is from joss whedon's firefly, and if you haven't seen it, go watch it now, because i can guarantee that this is not the only reference to it that i will be making.
> 
> UPDATE: 
> 
> [this](http://godsandlittlefishes.tumblr.com/) lovely person drew a [fantastic thing!](http://godsandlittlefishes.tumblr.com/post/55431683445/if-you-havent-read-this-adorable-au-then-what-are) check it out! :D


	6. it's the thought that counts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I'M SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER BUT UPDATES WILL BE MORE REGULAR I PROMISE SOUL CRUSHING ANGST IS ON THE WAY NEVER FEAR DARLINGS

"I miss you stopping by on breaks," is how Cosette chooses to phrase it. 

"You're going to have to leave the house sometime," is what Enjolras goes with. 

Both of them set Grantaire's teeth on edge for entirely different reasons. 

Since the Marius thing, he's called in sick, and it's been about a week. It happens sometimes, but it never gets any easier - it's been a long time since he's gotten a rush like that, and the steady intake of alcohol isn't quite enough to make him forget what he's _really_ thirsty for. Walking around a hospital, where it would be so easy to just - that line of thinking keeps him flat on his back and a joint in his mouth. Cosette, for her part, knows enough not to mention it. Enjolras on the other hand...

Well.

Their resident ghost seems to think it's a mind over matter sort of thing - and it _is_ an addiction, in that at least Enjolras is right, however loath Grantaire is to admit it. What Enjolras doesn't seem to understand is that riling Grantaire up makes everything oh, say, ten thousand times worse. 

"I get it, thank you, you've made your point very clear - "

"No, I don't think I have, because you're still in the bed."

Grantaire pulls the covers over his head. He thinks for one blessed moment that maybe Enjolras has left, but suddenly there's a _pop_ and Enjolras is right beside him. Shrieking, Grantaire flails out of bed.

"What the _fuck_ , Enjolras?" he yells from the floor. Enjolras sits cross-legged on his bed, unbearably pleased.

"I've gotten really good at that, I think. Trying to get into small spaces can be tricky - " Grantaire throws his pillow at him.

"What the _fuck_ , Enjolras?" Enjolras narrows his eyes at him.

"You haven't moved since Tuesday. It's time you got up." Grantaire scoops up his blanket and stands, attempting something like dignity. Given that he hasn't showered since Tuesday and is currently clothed only in his boxers (which have ducks on them, regrettably, what has his life come to?) he knows this is futile from the start. 

"I could kill people, you know," he reminds Enjolras grumpily. Shoving the ghost off his bed goes the same way as his dignity; apparently, Enjolras can choose when he's solid and when he's not. It's incredibly irritating. 

"You won't," Enjolras argues as Grantaire falls right through him. Grantaire glowers at him.

"I will."

"No, you won't."

"And you know that how?"

Enjolras opens his mouth, then closes it. Grantaire's heart does the wobbly thing it has a tendency to do around Enjolras. It's the response he expected; it doesn't make it any less…Enjolras. 

"That's what I thought," he says grimly and sets about taking up as much room on the bed as possible. Enjolras scoots over so that he can rest his head against the wall.

"We need the money," he says after a moment. "I mean, you and Cosette need the money." Grantaire shoots him a look.

"I know that, thank you."

"What if _I_ got a job?" Enjolras asks. 

Grantaire blinks. He can hear the clock ticking in the hall while his brain jumps through hoops to catch up. 

"I'm sorry?" he manages.

"I could get a job," Enjolras says, a touch defensively. "The mailman's seen me twice now, and the pizza guy and I had an excellent discussion on - "

"Yeah, no, what that was was you verbally steamrolling him about, er, Jesus, something, _The Real Hustle_ was on, I wasn't really - "

Enjolras bristles.

"He seemed very interested in immigration, actually, and it's - okay, that's not the point, the point is people are starting to see me - "

"So you think you should get a job?" Grantaire demands. "Where you'll probably have to pick things up and it might be a little weird that you show up in the same clothes every day, yeah, no, go for it, babe, you've _got_ this - "

"I could do it," Enjolras snaps. "And it's not like we have a choice if you've decided to hole up in here!"

"I'm not _holing up_ , I just need a little break before trying to go outside and not attack the nearest - "

"You're not going to attack anyone, for God's - "

" - right, because you know so much about being a vampire, do you? Did a little reading up on it? Watched a few movies?"

" - you act like you're some kind of monster - "

"And I _am_ ," Grantaire explodes. He expects Enjolras to recoil, maybe, or glare at him. Instead Enjolras just looks at him, expression unreadable. 

"We're trying to be human," he says coldly. "That's got to count for something."

And with a _pop_ , he's gone.

Something in Grantaire's chest twists. He buries his face in his pillows, throat burning, but somehow, somehow, he sleeps.

~

He's awoken by a sharp poke in the back.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Enjolras, I swear to - " He flops over, squints blearily. "Oh, hi, Cosette."

Cosette bends over him, her long, blonde hair tickling his nose. 

"What did you do to Enjolras?" she asks. "He's been sulking since I got home." Grantaire makes a face.

"Casper the Fucking Social Justice Ghost wants to get a job," he growls. Cosette doesn't even bat an eye.

"So?"

Grantaire groans, pressing his face into the mattress.

"Not you, too."

"He's fairly visible now," Cosette points out. "And I think it would do him some good. Getting out of the house. Walking around. Participating in life." She cocks her head. "It might do some other people who won't be mentioned some good, too, Other Person Who Won't Be Mentioned."

"I'll bite someone."

"You say that, but you never do."

Grantaire has had this argument today, thank you very much. He sighs heavily.

"I'll go back Wednesday, will that satisfy you both?"

Cosette bestows a tiny, gentle kiss to the tip of his nose.

"Wednesday sounds lovely." She pauses. "Azelma misses you."

"Azelma?"

"Teeny tiny nurse? Shorter than me? Pixie cut?" Cosette nudges the edge of the mattress with her knee. "She has a crush on you, you know." Grantaire stares into space for a moment.

"Maybe I'll go back Thursday."

Cosette laughs, squatting so that she's eye-level with Grantaire.

"I know, still hung up on cute dead people," she murmurs, and Grantaire glares so fiercely at her that she laughs again. "Give her a chance. Go on a date." She wrinkles her nose. "Take a shower." She brushes his hair back from his forehead, slim fingers familiar and cool. "Dinner's in an hour. Say something nice to Enjolras, please, I think his feelings are hurt."

"Feelings are dumb."

" _Grantaire_."

He lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

~

Grantaire doesn't quite manage to pluck up the courage to talk to Enjolras, and Enjolras seems pretty content to avoid him anyway. He doesn't even come down for dinner, which is weird; he likes sitting with them, even if he can't eat anything. Cosette says nothing, only raises her eyebrows, but it's enough to make Grantaire's stomach squirm like it hasn't in centuries. He feels _guilty_ , he realizes. Like he's done something wrong. Which he hasn't, by the way, reality may be harsh, but it's still reality. 

He finds himself hesitating in front of Enjolras' door. 

The knock is louder than he'd intended; no going back now.

"You missed Cosette's Pontmercy monologue," he says when the door remains stubbornly shut. "I had to suffer through it alone."  He studies the doorframe for a moment, resigned, then heads toward the bathroom. _Running water_ , he thinks as he steps into the steaming spray. _Yeah, we might need that, I guess. Wednesday it is._ He scrubs at his skin, soaping and scalding himself, washing a good several days of laying around and doing nothing down the drain. When he steps out at last, his lungs feel fuller than before. And he's scared. But he's clean.

It's a start. 

He thinks he sees Enjolras' door slip shut as he glances down the hallway, but he can't be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short, but i'm on a roll again, ladies and gents <3


	7. your negativity is starting to wear thin (but it's justified)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? an update within a week?

Cosette holds his hand on the way into work, which should be irritating, but it isn't, because it's Cosette, and honestly, he's missed stopping by on breaks, too, if he's being honest. He gets a mini-lecture from his boss - what an asshole, it was like a week - but other than that, no one seems to have noticed that he was gone at all. 

Except for Azelma.

He's not sure if she's just into dead-end guys (ha) like himself or what, but Cosette was right. She finds excuse after excuse to come by, chat him up, lean against the wall and smile a gap-toothed smile that, well, yeah, it's nice. It's been a while since Grantaire's flirted with anyone, the 60s at the earliest - 

("Lies," Cosette says when he mumbles something to that effect over lunch. "You and Enjolras flirt all the time."

"I'm sorry, _what?_ "

"Well, I mean, it comes across as arguing, but look at Lizzy and Darcy, look how they - "

"Gonna stop you right there, Cosette.")

\- and he's a bit rusty. Not that he's going to actually go out with this girl, because he doesn't quite trust himself, not yet. Just the thought makes his hands shake a little around the mop, makes his throat dry. For all that Cosette wants to pretend that things like going on dates and flirting and walking around like he belongs are still possible for someone like him, the fact remains that Cosette's condition is one day out of the month - twelve times a year. Grantaire has to trudge day after endless day with the reminder that he is a monster every time he inhales too deeply. Not that he has the heart to tell her this; she's a little bit ridiculous, straightening up and beaming whenever he pops by the desk.

However badly he flirts with Azelma (not flirts, not exactly, tries to let her down gently would be a more apt way of describing this, or perhaps one could call it the verbal equivalent of falling down two flights of stairs before weakly calling, "I'm okay"), he's nowhere near as bad as Mr. Pontmercy. The barrister is, quite frankly, awful at this, but he gets points for trying; the poor sap has apparently braved his grandfather's ire three times since Grantaire's been skivving, and today will make four.

"They're cute together," Azelma informs him, and Grantaire jumps. "Sorry, did I scare you?" she teases him. _Yes_ , Grantaire thinks. She's tugging on her earlobe - it's actually fairly endearing, as nervous tics go.

"They are, kind of," he hedges. The tiny nurse cocks her head at him.

"Do you…you know."

"Do I what?"

She gives Cosette a significant look.

"I mean, do you fancy her?"

Grantaire laughs, caught by surprise even though he really ought to be used to this thing by now.

"No. We're just good friends. Promise."

"Oh," Azelma replies, and her gaze is a little intense, so he goes back to watching the lovebirds, uncomfortable. "So, um. So, do you want to maybe go out tonight then?" Grantaire is shaking his head fondly at the way Cosette sticks her tongue out when she listens to Marius; he's glad for her, even if Marius is a bit of a doofus.

"Sorry, what?" he asks belatedly. Azelma bites her lip.

"Do you want to maybe go out?" she asks again. Grantaire freezes - he hadn't expected her to come right out and say it.

"Er - "

Azelma shrugs a shoulder, smile suddenly tight.

"Right, yeah, silly me - sorry, that was really - ugh, that was _really_ dumb - "

"Sure," Grantaire blurts, and her mouth drops open.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Grantaire says eagerly while he brain moans that this is the definition of a bad idea. "Er, tonight work for you?" Azelma smiles, a startlingly wide, mischievous smile.

"Musain's at five. It's on me." And she flounces off without a single backward glance, and Grantaire knows in the deepest, dustiest regions of his soul that this will not end well.

~

Cosette, predictably, disagrees.

"Wear this - no, I lied, this one's better, it'll show off your eyes - "

She tosses a green plaid flannel shirt that he hasn't worn in months at him, and he barely has time to catch it before a pair of too-tight black jeans smack him in the face.

"No," he complains holding the offending clothing items up as if they physically pain them (and they do). "No, this is not even a real date, Cosette, I'm not doing this - "

"It's a date, Grantaire!" Cosette cries, propping her hands on her hips. "Look nice! This is part of it, this is good - don't touch your hair, I'll do it." She produces gel from nowhere, jaw set, and Grantaire slumps.

" _Cosette_."

He ends up sitting on the edge of her bed, scowling, while she massages the gel into his hair. He half wonders if she'll paint his nails and do his mascara and any number of things that won't make any difference regarding his oh-so-appealing physical appearance. Along with staunchly refusing to hear any sense with respect to the fact that he is a soulless, blood-sucking murderer, she also becomes conveniently deaf whenever he reminds her that he is a soulless, blood-sucking murderer who doesn't even have the perks of being a magical vampire model like Edwin Cutler or whatever the fuck his name is. He picks at his too-tight black jeans petulantly, privately making up his mind not to enjoy the evening at all. A _pop_.

"Hello, Enjolras," Cosette says brightly. Whenever they're both in the room, she has a tendency to go a bit _kindergartner teacher_ , so to speak. Grantaire hopes it'll wear off. "Grantaire's going on a date, isn't that lovely?" 

Grantaire raises his head, daring Enjolras to comment - if his breath catches in his throat at the expression on the ghost's face, he tosses it in a hole, kicks some dirt over it, and resolves never to linger on it again.

"I think that's progress," Enjolras says coolly. "Going out. Making an effort. Trying." Grantaire lets his head drop again. Passive-aggressive bastard. "Good luck," Enjolras says.

"Thanks," Grantaire says, and thinks, _Fuck off_.

Once Cosette is quite finished with whatever she's doing to his hair, she all but pushes him to the door, cheerfully throwing out tips and bits of encouragement.

"Just try to relax, it's just a date - I'm really proud of you, Enjolras is right, this is progress - speaking of which, don't mind Enjolras, he's just jealous - "

"Is that what you called that?" Grantaire interrupts grumpily. This is a terrible idea. Cosette kisses him on the cheek.

"Well, your thighs look pretty great in those jeans," she pointed out, fiddling with his hair again. Grantaire bats her hand away and she narrows her eyes at him. "You are so dumb," she sighs. "Just go out and have a good time tonight, okay?" And, unexpectedly, she wraps her arms around his middle. "We're all right. We're really all right. I love you."

"I love you, too," Grantaire replies, bemused. She pulls back - and wait, is she _crying?_

"Cosette. It's a date." Cosette flaps a hand at him, the other swiping at her cheeks.

"I know. I just - is this how mums feel when they send their kids off to school for the first time?" Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

"I'm just under two hundred years old," he reminds her. "I'll be just fine, Mummy, I promise - I'll make friends, and share my crayons, and no, really, stop crying, this is embarrassing for both of us."

"Go, then," she all but sobs, half-giggling anyway. "Mummy's proud of you, you complete arse."

He sticks his tongue out at her, salutes, and then heads to the car, in a significantly better mood than he'd anticipated. 

~

Azelma's waiting for him at the front - the Musain's is busy tonight, all clinking mugs and laughter and sweat. Grantaire orders a drink almost straight off, good mood souring to that oh-so-familiar prick at his teeth.

"Are you all right?" Azelma asks over the din, and he jumps.

"What?"

She nods toward his hand, which is shaking so badly that some of the drink has slopped over. He considers lying, but at this point, it's starting to get to be too much, too much noise, too much stimulation, too many people.

"D'you want to take a walk?" he suggests, and she grins.

"Though you'd never ask."

She slips her hand in his as they meander the streets. It's not particularly welcome, but Grantaire bites his tongue and focuses on not biting other things, and it's not so bad after a while, not really. Azelma talks enough for the both of him; all he really has to do is make neutral noises every so often, and he thinks he might just get through the evening unscathed. 

"You're awfully reserved, Grantaire," she comments as they pause on the corner. The streets are quiet, nearly deserted. Something begins to prickle up Grantaire's spine. "Anything the matter?"

"No," he says slowly. Her eyes glint in the darkness. "But we should probably start heading back."

She stops. He stops. Behind them, a very familiar voice drawls:

"Oh, but we've got so much catching up to do."

Grantaire turns.

"Montparnasse," he says, tugging Azelma behind him. She twists out of his grip, flouncing over the Montparnasse, who smiles a smile that shows off his long, curved incisors. He winks, and his eyes go black, two smooth, cold stones.

"Told you we'd find you in the end," he says, and there's no point in even putting up a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd say that i'm sorry, but i'm just not. free cliffhangers for all!

**Author's Note:**

> i love feedback so much, you have no idea, it makes me so happy, please make me happy, i word-bled for you
> 
> also, come visit me on tumblr, lovelies! [shakespearean-spunk](http://shakespearean-spunk.tumblr.com/)


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